


A Condor in A Virginia

by huxduxtuxlux



Category: Crash Pad (2017), Logan Lucky (2017), Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Clydeland, Crack, M/M, Slow Burn, Some Fluff, and smut to come, first person stensland, fuck if i know, i dunno even know you guys, kylux adjacent, not really kylux but thats the fandom who cares, sort of a roommates au?, weird au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-03-05 22:43:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 13,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13397817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huxduxtuxlux/pseuds/huxduxtuxlux
Summary: Stensland's on to bigger and better things. They're just not quite what he expected.





	1. Duck Tape

My work in Seattle done, and my status as a big beautiful Condor achieved, I decided it was time to move on to a new city and a new adventure. New York City had been the plan, but as I was crossing the obscenely large country by train and bus, I nearly ran out of cash by the Virginias. I don’t quite know the difference between West and Regular, but I found myself at a shithole motel with an adjacent bar called Duck Tape. I like puns as much as I hate roaches, so things seemed to even out to a neutral-okay vibe.

It’s night two in this motel, and I figure it’s time to investigate this bar and see about making some friends. How nice would it be if I could find another gaggle of lovely older ladies to be my regular drinking buddies and life counselors? I could really use some of Denise’s sage advice right now, but a drink will have to do.

I plant my bottom firmly on a bar stool and look around. The bartender has his back to me, helping a couple of old bearded fellas to another bout of whiskey. I look around for a drink menu but there isn’t one. Not even a chalkboard of specials. I suppose Seattle’s sophistication has spoiled me.

“Good evening, what can I get for you?” An almost cartoonish Southern drawl snaps me out of my longing for a nice big city cocktail. I look up at the bartender--he’s younger than his voice, probably about my age, with thick dark hair, lots of moles, and a big nose. His face is serious, but not unfriendly. He’s also massive. Not fat-massive, just... _ built _ .

“I, um, hello. Can you make a Glowing Dragonfly?”

“A what now?”

“A Glowing Dragonfly? It was special at my old stomping grounds, perhaps not a universal drink, sorry.”

“Do you know what’s in it? I can try to throw something together for you.”

I try to think. How embarrassing I’m not sure of the contents of my signature drink? “Um, well. It’s green. Like,  _ very _ green. I think the liquor is a vodka, and it’s sort of lime-y. It kind of tastes like green Jello? Um...”

The bartender smiles. “Let me see what I can do.”

He goes down to the corner where all his fancy mix things are kept and starts pouring stuff together like it’s a drink he’s made a million times. He moves so gracefully it’s a minute before I notice one of his arms is made of dark metal.

He comes back with a drink, just a green as I hoped, not in a martini glass as I’m used to, but I guess I didn’t mention that part. He sets it down in front of me and drops a curly straw in without a word. I take a sip.

“It tastes like a green Jolly Rancher.” I observe, smacking my lips. “It’s delightful.”

“Does it taste like your Dragonfly?”

“A little,” I say, taking another sip. The curly straw is just the perfect touch. This man really knows his craft! “But it’s better. Wow. What do you call it?”

“Nothin’,” he says with a shrug of his ginormous shoulders. “It’s a brand new creation.” He considers it, and me too, I suppose, sipping on the perfectly pink curly straw. “What’s your name?”

“Me? I’m Stensland.”

“Maybe I can call it the Stensland Special, then. It’s your drink, after all.”

I can feel myself beaming an unbecomingly keen smile. I try to swallow it down. I’m a big beautiful Condor now, to be respected and feared. I must be careful letting my vulnerability show in new places.

“That’s lovely. But it isn’t quite right,” I say. The bartender frowns. “Could it be called...Stensland’s Creek?”

The bartender’s eyes twinkle. “Is that supposed to be like that show? Dawson’s Creek?”

I nod. “Yes. It’s my favorite. If something’s to be named for me...well, if it’s too odd a request--”

“Hey, man, it’s your drink. Stensland’s Creek it is.” Swiftly, he goes back to his mixing station and pours another glass of it, for himself. Approaching me, he raises it. “To Stensland’s Creek, the Duck Tape’s newest creation.”

We clink glasses. “Cheers!” I find myself grinning. We knock our drinks back. The bartender hisses.

“Jesus, that’s sweet.”

“Too sweet?” I ask.

“For me, yeah. But I could tell you’re the sugary type.”

“Did my order of a bright green cocktail give it away?”

The bartender smirks at me and I can’t pretend to ignore the little flippity-flip in my belly.

“It helped.” He says.

“What’s your name, Master Mixologist Man?”

“I’m Clyde,” he says. “Clyde Logan.”

He offers his hand and I, for some inexplicable reason, kiss it as if he were the Queen of England.

It’s the beginning of a very long night.


	2. An Invitation

Luckily there is no time to marinate in the awkwardness of the royal hand kiss, as Clyde is quickly called over to a group of laborers in for their nightly rounds. By the time he returns to me most of the patrons have gone home. It being a Tuesday, I suppose regular folks have to get up and go to work in the morning. I think about my friends and co-workers at Soft Solutions. I really had up and left without a thought to them. I resolve to call Michael tomorrow, when I am sober and sound of mind, to thank him for the opportunity and for his kindness over the last five years. Perhaps I’ll send the staff an Edible Arrangement once my finances get into order. I feel rather strange about it; I’ve always been somewhat chaotic, some have called me the Ginger Tornado, and a bit of a nomad. But generally I do not leave without goodbyes. I suppose that Condor spirit just took over me, forced me to fly without a thought or a plan.

Hmm, I ought to send some postcards, at least, to all my Seattle contacts. So they know I’m safe and thinking of them. That I value them. I wouldn’t want someone to just up and leave and never say boo to me again. I didn’t even tell Lyle! Oh God, he probably thinks I’ve smoked myself to death, or slipped in the shower during a particularly vigorous masturbation session, hit my head and drowned. I compose a text message:

_ Dearest Lyle, my good friend. Do not fear for me. My new spirit of strength has led me on a journey Eastward. I am in good health. Do not cry for me. Soon I will send you postcards and keepsakes from my travels, but first I must get settled. One day I will return, if only for a brief visit to my old compatriot. Do not long for me. There is a stash of weed behind the fridge that I want you to have. Toke and think of me. My love to Linda. Forever yours, Stensland. _

Just as I hit send, Clyde sets down another drink for me. “What brings you here, anyways?” he asks me. “That accent is something else.”

“I could say the same about yours,” I say, not unkind.

“Yeah, but mine is normal ‘round here. Yours not so much. What’re you, Scottish?”

“I’m Irish, thank you very much. But I come here from Seattle. I like to move around a bit, and it was time for a change of scenery.”

“I can understand that,” says Clyde, “but why would you change to  _ this _ scenery?”

“It wasn’t my intention. The plan was New York. But the plan also overlooked finances, so...I guess this is a semi-permanent pit-stop until I make some more money.”

“Are you staying next door?”

“Yessir.”

“Good luck saving anything up while staying there. 40 bucks a night for a ratty twin bed...I’d never say it to his face, y’know, but the owner’s a crook. A good friend and all. But a crook.”

“Yes, well, it’s the cheapest thing around. I’ll make do.”

“You could stay with me,” he says, and my face must turn as red as it feels because he quickly blurts, “not like that! I mean, um, I have a big house. A guest room with no guest in it. That’s all I mean. I could make it up for you tomorrow and you can start staying tomorrow night. No charge.”

“Oh, I...wow, thank you.” My gratitude is only tempered by flashbacks to episodes of 20/20 and 60 Minutes. He doesn’t seem like a murderer, but I am a drifter with no contacts in the middle of Appalachia...then again, who would mess with a strong condor such as myself?

“Um, sure, yeah. I’ll be right back...” Clyde steps out from the bar and into the backroom and I stare at the TV, which plays bowling championship highlights from 1998. Ah, that was a year! I won a spelling bee, finally found jeans that fit, had my first kiss, and Dawson’s Creek premiered! Simpler times.

Clyde returns with a manila folder stuffed with documents. He places them on the bar.

“What on Earth is this?” I ask him.

“A copy of my background check. I realize the stereotypes, you know. Just want you to know I’m not a murderer. But also I won’t be offended if you’d prefer to stay at the motel. I’m just trying to help out. I’ll warn you I have done a little time, but for minor crimes, and I’m really trying to live an honest life now, I’ve never been a violent person, I--”

I shake my head. “I don’t need to read this, Clyde. You seem like a very genuine and kind man. I’ll admit the thought flashed through my head--” Clyde’s face droops and I realize I’ve hurt his feelings. Shit. I’m always stepping in it. “But it would’ve for any stranger offering a place to stay! Nothing personal. I...I really appreciate it. Your...openness.”

Clyde nods but doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t take the folder back, either.

“I’m just wondering...I mean it’s awfully nice and I’m not not-grateful, but how come you’d offer your room to a stranger, for free?”

Clyde shrugs. “I’m not so used to living on my own. My brother moved South a few months ago to live near his daughter and I’m alone in a good-sized house for the first time in my life. I sorta miss having someone else around.”

“No girlfriend?”

“No girlfriend,” Clyde says, neutral but quick, eager to change the subject. “Also, I’ve been reading a lot about karma, you heard of that?”

“Sure, of course.”

“Right, well. I always thought my family had somethin’ of a curse on us. Just unlucky shit for generations and generations. But then I heard about this karma stuff. And I was thinking, maybe nothing good ever happened to us because we were never doing anything good for no one else. And things have been better the past year or so, and I don’t want things to go back to unlucky. So I’m trying to put as much good out there as I can. Help people out when the opportunity presents itself. Give good, get good. You know?”

“I think that’s very admirable, Clyde.” I say, raising my drink. “I salute you.”

Clyde lets his thick hair fall forward into his face. I sit on my hands to fight the urge to brush it out of his face and tuck it behind his ear. Change the subject, Stensland.

“So, tell me about this curse,” I request.

And the Logan Family History Lesson takes up the rest of the night.


	3. Settling In

He talks about the curse until the sun starts to rise. Talks fast but careful, like no one ever lets him talk this much and he’s expecting me to shush him at any moment. When we realize it’s nearly 5 am, we pack it in, him going to count the till and me going back to my motel room.

Clyde says, “If you wanna meet me in front of the motel at 2 pm, we can load up my truck and get you settled in my guest room. I don’t have to be back to work till 6.”

“Ok! That would be great, Clyde. You’re sure it’s alright if I stay?”

“Of course,” Clyde says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Lovely.” I say. “Thank you.” 

I try to send a beaming smile of thanks but his attention is already on the till, counting. I stumble back to my room, slightly tipsy and very tired.

And I sleep.

And I dream. When I wake up around noon, I try to remember the narrative of my dream, but I can only sense bits and pieces. Clyde was there, only his prosthetic arm was glittery blue, and he was on roller skates. I vaguely remember myself on something like a hoverboard, and a heated discussion about the Spice Girls. And then there was a bed, and I was in it with someone, breathing heavy, doing the things one does, but I can’t see who I was with. The face is blurred, and the body, too. The sheets were jersey. John Denver played on the radio.

By the time I get out of bed and wonder into the bathroom, the dream has all but completely slipped from my consciousness. I get on with the day, take a shower and smoke a bowl and get ready to meet Clyde out front at two.

 

 

Getting my rolling suitcase, my big camping backpack, and my Dawson’s-Creek-Casket-Mounted-On-A-Scooter down the stairs is something of an ordeal, but getting it up was a million times harder. That’s what she said. Anyhow, Clyde pulls up in a rusty red pickup truck just as I hit the last stair. He gets out and opens the back hatch.

“What the hell’s in that trunk? A body?” He takes my suitcase and tosses it up with ease, then reaches for the next piece of luggage.

“Such a gentleman, Clyde,” I say, handing over my backpack. “No, not a body. That’d be easier to explain than the truth. It is, in fact, a collection of VHS tapes of Dawson’s Creek.”

Clyde tilts his head. “Ain’t you heard of Netflix?”

“Of course I have,” I huff, a little more indignant than called for. “But these were all taped on their original air dates. Includes the commercials played during the broadcasts and everything! Plus, you can’t tell when it’s all wrapped up like this, but the lady I bought it from decorated the trunk with awesome magazine clippings and collages...it’s the perfect tome and tribute to the greatest Teen Drama of all time.”

He sort of looks at me funny. Not in a mean way, just...puzzled.

“Have you ever watched it?” I ask.

“My sister watched it and I’d catch pieces here and there, but I never sat down and paid attention.”

“Well, if you’re up for it, I’d be happy to educate you. Then you’d understand.”

Clyde just smiled a quiet little smile and hoisted the trunk - with  _ incredible _ ease I must add - into the flatbed. 

He came around and opened my door for me before climbing in on the driver’s side. “Clyde, this Southern Hospitality is something else,” I say, hopping in. “Unless the door handle’s broken or something?”

“No, I’m just real polite,” he says with a chuckle, then shifts into drive, ready to take me to my new, temporary home.

 

We go down the main road for about 3 miles, then down a dirt road for 2, then down an even dirtier side road for another 3. The nearest neighbors are many stones’ throws away. I’m expecting a small old cabin or a trailer but when we pull up I’m surprised to see a modest white bungalow, quite new from the looks of it, with a well-manicured lawn and a porch swing. 

“What a darling house you have, Clyde!” I exclaim, hopping out of the truck. “All it needs is a white picket fence and a Golden Retriever!”

“Those are on my to-do list,” Clyde says, then leads me into my new home.

It’s even lovelier on the inside. A sun-drenched living room, a nice kitchen with all new appliances, a spacious bathroom with a shower AND a claw-foot tub, a couple of bedrooms, and--

“This is my favorite part,” Clyde says, leading me up the stairs in the middle of the house. The upper floor is one big room with sloped ceilings, like a spacious converted attic. And the entire thing is a library. 

“This is fucking gorgeous, Jesus!” I find myself exclaiming. The walls have built-in shelves, the books are beautifully displayed. The lighting is perfect, soft and yellow. A big couch and a few comfy chairs sit on the middle of the room, atop a plush rug. “This is the goddamn dream, my friend!”

Clyde lets his hair fall in front of his face again, as if to hide his expression. “When I came into some money a couple years ago decided to get a house built just for me, this was the number one thing I wanted. A private library.”

“I don’t blame you!” I run fingers across the book spines. God, there’s got to be at least a thousand books in here. “I’ve always been more of a TV fella myself, but I can sure appreciate this! What do you like to read?”

He tells me about his latest reads as he helps me settle into my room, the guest room, which features a never-before-slept-on Tempurpedic mattress. Hashtag blessed! What kind of good fortune have I tumbled head first into, here?

His face is alight as he talks, like he’s so excited to have someone to listen to him. It’s awfully sweet. I’ve no problem being the listener for once in my life. A respected condor such as myself knows when to step back and let others speak. He’s so kind and generous. I resolve to find a job and pay him  _ something _ . Nothing equal to what actual rent here would be, but something to thank him for his openness. 

But first, I'll invite him to help me christen my new room with a good long toke.


	4. Into Town

Clyde leaves for work so I smoke, jerk off, smoke some more, and jerk off some more. Take a nice bath in that gorgeous and spacious tub. Find a book to read up in the loft when I realize I forgot to ask Clyde for his wi-fi password. As he was leaving he told me to help myself to the leftovers in the fridge, and God almighty this man can  _ cook _ . Sure food is better when you’re high, but I’m sure even sober I’d’ve been knocked out by his pasta carbonara.

I crawl into bed rather early for myself, the exhaustion of travel and uncomfortable beds catching up with me. This thing, though, is tempurpedic. Luxurious. I’m sleeping like a king. Jesus, I feel like I should offer to suck Clyde’s dick for all his generosity. But I don’t know how and I’d probably be a bit too toothy.

I wake up the next morning to the smell of bacon. Clyde’s set the table, a glass pitcher of orange juice in the center, a stack of pancakes beside it.

“Good morning. I hope you’re hungry,” he smiles, flipping the bacon with a fork.

“Always,” I say, taking a seat and helping myself. “Do you always make such elaborate breakfasts?”

Clyde chuckles. “You think pancakes and bacon are elaborate?” I love how he says it. 'Ee-lab-oh-rayt.'

“Well, with the table set all nice and all...I typically just eat Cinnamon Toast Crunch straight from the box.”

Clyde shrugs. “I like to cook.”

“Well thank you,” I say, shoving some pancake into my mouth. “It’s fucking delicious.”

“I was thinking,” Clyde transfers the bacon from pan to serving plate and walks it over to the table, sitting down beside me. “We oughta go down to the hardware store, get you a copy of the house key. What with me at work a lot of the time you oughta have your own.”

I peer at him. “How are you so trusting?”

“I’m not,” Clyde says. “But I got a good sense about people. I know who I can and can’t trust. I know you’re one of the good ones.”

The left corner of his mouth pulls up into not-quite-a-smile and my cheeks go warm. I grab some bacon for my plate.

  
  


The hardware store is in a part of town I haven’t seen yet. A good old fashioned American Main Street like you see in the movies. It’s quite adorable, but I don’t say so. He might think me patronizing, and I certainly don’t want to insult Clyde or his town. 

We’re waiting for the key guy when a very,  _ very _ hot redheaded lady approaches Clyde with a smile. “What brings you out of your sanctuary on your day off?” she says, hand on her hip and head cocked. She’s popping her bubble gum and her earrings jingle and I think I like her quite a bit.

“Gettin’ a spare key for this guy here, he’s staying in my guest room for a little while,” Clyde says. “This is Stensland. Stensland, this here’s Mellie.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” I say, perhaps too fast, shaking her hand awkwardly. 

“Sure, you too...Clyde can I talk to you by the air conditionin’ units for a moment?”

She pulls Clyde by the real arm to a new aisle. He said he didn’t have a girlfriend, but maybe they’re just not official yet -- she sure seems protective of him and perhaps upset that they won’t have much alone time in his nice house while I’m around. That’s certainly fair. My god, she’s pretty. Good for Clyde. He deserves a nice, beautiful lady. 

Clyde returns, rolling his eyes, and Mellie shoots Clyde a wary look before exiting the store, the bell tinkling behind her. 

“Don’t mind her,” says Clyde. “She thinks I ain’t being careful enough with helping people out. She’s just a bit protective. I know she’ll warm up to ya in time.”

“She’s very beautiful. Why’d you say you didn’t have a girlfriend?”

“Well on account of I don’t have a-- oh, you thought! God, no, Mellie’s my sister!”

“OH! I’m sorry, Clyde, I’m always jumping to conclusions. Jesus, that’s like the time I thought my roommate’s girlfriend was his sister! Except it’s just the opposite. Wow, my life is really just a shuffling of the same old circumstances, isn’t it? That isn’t bleak at all--”

“You boys need a key made?” Comes a gruff drawl from across the counter. The key guy. Thank god for him, interrupting my existential spiral. I can’t do those anymore. Condors don’t spiral.

 

I go home with a pink breast cancer-themed copy of Clyde’s house key. On the drive, he plays Willie Nelson and tells me all about how much he loves his music. I say I don’t know much about him but the weed stuff, and Clyde just laughs. 

“Would you like to listen to his records and smoke a bowl with me when we get home?” I ask, almost nervous, like asking a girl on a date. He may not want drugs in his house. He may be a narc!

“It’s been quite a while since I’ve...partaken,” Clyde muses. “But what the hell, I ain’t got anything else to do today.”

 

And that’s the beginning of how we ended up half naked on the living room rug, ice cream pints and sticky spoons lying beside us.


	5. High

Now, don’t get too excited. What happened was the AC was on the fritz and we were nice and stoned and thus uninhibited in taking off our shirts to cool down. And then the ice cream was the natural next step. I know you were all hoping for juicy sexy bits, but none of that happened. Not then, at least.

It was really nice, giggling on the floor over a joke I’ve forgotten with Clyde. During that chat we discovered we have quite a few things in common: a love of reality cooking shows, a fondness for thai food, dead parents, above-average whistling talents, and a habit of doing newspaper crossword puzzles on lazy Sundays. He showed me his one-handed push-ups and handstands (impressive and a little hot?) and I showed him how I could put my legs behind my head. I think that was a little much for us both and the high was fading, so we cooled to a companionable silence slightly after.

Clyde flipped on the TV--Bachelor in Paradise was on.

“I’m ashamed to admit I sorta like watchin’ this,” he said with a shy smile. He looked so nice, propped up against the couch, elbow resting on his knee, the sun setting and hitting his eyes just-so through the window. If I was one of those weird guys who always wears a camera around his neck I surely would’ve snapped a shot just then.

“I get a kick out of it, too,” I said. “If you ask me I think there’s no use in being ashamed of being entertained.”

“Would you ever go on something like that?”

“A dating show! Yikes. I don’t think I’m the right kind of...I don’t think I’m what they’re looking for.” I said.

“Oh. Yeah. Me either.” Clyde spoke carefully. “But, you know, I think on another channel there’s a, um, a gay one.”

I looked at him then and he looked at me, red-faced, afraid of what he’d just said and holding his breath in, terrified but eager for my response.

“That’s, um, that’s not what I meant, Clyde.” I said gently. I had a feeling, given his reserved temperament and his yikes-conservative surroundings, that he probably didn’t let too many people in on his proclivities. I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea but I didn’t want him to clam up on me, either. “I just meant I’m not the conventionally-handsome-charming-for-TV type. I’m not gay.”

He went into something a panic. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to imply--”

“Clyde! It’s okay, calm down.” I placed what I hoped was a reassuring hand on his arm. “You’re certainly not the first to make that assumption about me. It doesn’t bother me.” I shrugged. “I just happen to like women.”

“Please don’t think I was trying to...I dunno, trying to get with you or something, I wasn’t--”

“I don’t. Really. And even if you were I’d only be flattered, not upset. I mean, look at ya!” He didn’t react much to that. “But I don’t think you were. It’s okay.”

Clyde was quiet and wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I haven’t...nobody knows apart from Mellie. And maybe my brother Jimmy, she might’ve told him or he might’ve figured it out, but Mellie’s the only person I ever told.”

“Well now you’ve told another! And I don’t mind a goddamn bit. In fact, it’s a good thing! Now if I meet a girl here I don’t have to worry about her liking you more! That happened the last few times I had a hot roommate. It’s never a fun feeling.”

“Hot?”

“Clyde, don’t act like you’ve never looked in a mirror.”

He blushed at that, but smiled, too, tried to hide it in the crook of his arm. And I felt brave. Felt like the thought I’ve been rolling around in my brain for years may be worth saying.

“Do you wanna know something?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“I’ve always wondered...I mean I think I’ve always known I’m less-than-completely-straight.”

Clyde gave me a look that said “go on,” so I did. “I mean I’m very attracted to women, so it’s been easy to just ignore the parts of me that are attracted to men sometimes, too. So that’s what I’ve done. I mean, dating’s hard enough as it is! It always seemed like that would just be an unnecessary complication. But my luck with the ladies has turned sour as of late. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to expand my horizons a bit.”

Clyde smiled a sad smile. “Unfortunately this ain’t a great area for horizon-expanding.”

“Not much of a queer community, is there?”

Clyde shook his head. “I made an account on one of those apps once. Fake name and pictures without my face and all cuz I was afraid someone I know might see. But I didn’t need to worry, turns out, on account of the nearest user was 44 miles away.”

“Jesus.”

“Yep.”

“So have you never been with anyone, then?”

Clyde shook his head and sighed. “30 year old virgin.”

“Jesus, you poor thing. Have you never thought of moving somewhere a bit more...colorful?”

Clyde snorted at my word choice. “I was plannin’ to. A guy I served with told me he’d get me set up in Chicago when my tour was done, but then I had my accident....I was too scared to move somewhere new after that. Figured it’d be hard to find a job or meet anybody with a plastic arm. At least here I know everyone, and I knew I’d be able to make a living. And then I guess after a while I just sorta abandoned the idea of leaving altogether.”

“So your plan is just to live alone forever?”

Clyde shrugged. “I guess so, yeah.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. It was too sad to talk about. We sat in silence until finally he said, “are you hungry?”

“Always.”

 

As he cooked I sat thinking. We were both lonely, he a sad gay virgin, me a lovelorn bicuriosity, together in this house. We liked each other as friends, certainly. I’d dare say we had something of a chemistry. There were definitely hints of flirtation on both ends that first night at the bar. I could propose we explore something together. I could just go up and kiss him, even, brush those dark waves a from his face and plant one on his lips. I’d thought of it before. It would be a nice feeling. It would feel like finally taking a deep breath after swimming deep underwater, or like stepping into a hot shower after a long day. 

But I couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t feel right. Because he couldn’t  _ choose _ me, y’know? His options would be me or nobody. So likely he’d pick me, but that isn’t much of a choice, is it? I’d feel like I was taking advantage. I’d always wonder if he actually wanted  _ me _ , or if he just went along because I happened to be here. And that wouldn't be right. A condor deserves to be desired, chosen, wanted. Not defaulted to.

So no, I decided. I wouldn’t pursue that. We’d just be friendly roommates until I have the funds to continue my journey. And that’d be for the best.

That’s what I decided.

  
  
  


He asked if I wanted to watch Dawson’s Creek while we ate our spaghetti and of course I flew to my tape casket. 

“We have to start at the beginning,” I said. “You need to experience the full gamut.”

“Whatever you say,” he said.

When it was over, he said, “one more.”

Then, “one more,” again.

We were on tape six when he fell asleep, his head against my shoulder, snoring lightly. His snore had a wheezing whistle quality to it that I found quite lovely.

I leaned my head back and let myself drift off beside him.


	6. Sunday

At some point during the night I wake up, in motion and lifted several feet off the floor. As I open my eyes I realize I’m being carried bridal style from my couch to the guest room.

“Mmm, Clyde?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers. “I woke up and the way your neck was twisted on the couch looked really uncomfortable.”

“Oh.” I curl against his chest and drift.

“You’re so light,” he says, now placing me gently on the bed. He sits on the edge and pulls the comforter up over me.

“Aw, Clyde.” I reach out and pat his artificial arm. “You’re such a handsome southern gentleman.”

Clyde chuckles softly. “Okay. You get some sleep. I’m gonna make waffles for breakfast, you like waffles?”

“Mmhmm,” I bury my face in the pillow. “I love waffles.”

“Ok. Goodnight.”

He gets up to go and sleepily I reach out and grab at his arm. My fingertips brush over the fine hairs of his forearm. “Clyde.”

“Yeah, Stens?”

“You are lovely. Sleep well, my lovely. Lovely Clyde...”

And then I’m asleep.

 

I wake up covered in the hot prickle of embarrassment, knowing I said dumb stuff when I was half asleep but not remembering what exactly. I waddle out into the kitchen and am greeted by the smell of fresh waffles and clean shampoo. Clyde’s hair is freshly washed, his beard freshly trimmed, he’s wearing a well-fitting Crosby, Stills, and Nash tee-shirt and his face is bright. I am all of a sudden keenly aware that I’ve been in the same stained sweat-shorts and green tee-shirt for the past 48 hours, my stubble is patchy and itchy, and my hair smells of weed and grease. I’m past due for a long shower, a good shave, and a load of laundry.

“Finally, you’re up,” he says, getting up from his own meal to put a plate together for me. God, the hospitality! 

I sit down at the table and see that between our places there’s a newspaper laid out with two pencils.

“I’ve been waiting to dig in to the Sunday puzzle,” Clyde says, loading my plate high with fluffy, perfectly golden waffles. 

“You...you waited for me to do the puzzle with you?” I’m so struck by this simply sweet gesture, I almost want to cry. 

“Yeah,” Clyde shrugs and puts the plate down in front of me. “I thought it could be something nice for us to do together.” He opens the fridge. “OJ or coffee?”

“Orange juice, please...Clyde. This is so lovely.”

He pours me a glass and sets it down as he takes the seat beside me. “It’s been so long since I’ve had anyone else around.” He takes a big bite of his waffles. “It’s so nice to have you here...I’m sorry if it feels like overkill.”

“Overkill? God, no. It feels...perfectly lovely.”

Clyde laughs. “You sure like that word, dontcha?”

“What, ‘lovely’?”

“Yeah, you kept calling me it last night.” 

“I did?” Jesus Christ, Stensland, keep it in your pants. “That’s embarrassing.”

“Don’t be embarrassed. It was sweet.”

I feel the heat rising on my cheeks. The Reddening has begun. Curse my Irish complexion! 

The safest thing to do, it seems, would be to change the subject. “Can you read the 1-down clue to me?”

“You start with down instead of across?” Clyde asks.

I laugh. “Don’t sound so scandalized! It’s a useful strategy. Corners fill in faster that way.”

Clyde looks skeptical. “Well, we can try it your way. But next week we’re doing it my way.”

“We can do it anyway you like, Clyde,” I say, before clamming my hand over my mouth as I realize my innuendo. Fuck. 

Clyde smirks at me. “I appreciate your openness.”

God, I must be tomato red. I take a can’t-talk-through-this-mouthful bite and wait for him to read the puzzle clue.

  
  


At 2, Clyde has to start his shift at the bar. Before he leaves, he gives me the wifi password, shows me the trick to get the washing machine drum even, and points out the freshly fluffed towels in the linen closet. Bless that beautiful man. 

I spend the afternoon doing laundry, grooming myself, unpacking the contents of my suitcase, and putting the clean dishes away. It feels like the least I can do to help out with little household things. I look for more ways to help--does the kitchen need sweeping? Does the lawn need mowing? But everything is so well-kept already I don’t see much opportunity to contribute. I think of poor Clyde, alone with so many lonely hours to fill. I’m glad he has his library. When I was a weird kid I found lots of friends inside of books, and then of course as a weird teenager I found friends in the teen tv posses of  _ Dawson’s Creek _ and  _ That 70s Show _ ; I bet Clyde’s no stranger to that fictional-company concept. I’ve never done much of that substituting for romantic companionship, though. Unless you count porn.

That reminds me--I finally have the wifi password!

And if I happen to find videos of Dark-Haired Hunks fucking Skinny Ginger Twinks...well, that’s my business.


	7. Work

The next morning I decide to do something to nice to thank Clyde for his hospitality. I set the alarm on my phone for 7 am aka the ass-crack of dawn, and get up and make breakfast. Er,  _ attempt _ to make breakfast. The pancakes are just about done and I’m cracking the eggs when all of a sudden,  _ woosh, _ flames! I left the dishrag too close to the burner, and, well, shit. 

Without thinking I grab the rag, trying to drop it in the sink, but of course it’s fucking burning and I shake out my hand, yelping, and it drops to floor. I’m this close to stomping out the fire when I remember I’m not wearing any shoes! Scrambling, I grab a cup, fill it in the sink, and pour it all over the floor. Then another cupful. And one more. 

And now there is no fire, but the pancakes are burnt and the eggs are ruined and there’s an ashy pile formerly known as dishrag on the floor, in a puddle.

And Clyde’s in the doorway.

“What in the hell,” he says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. I’ve never seen him this undressed--plaid boxers and an old Johnny Cash tee-shirt. Fuck, he looks good. His legs are literal tree trunks and I’m stunned. And embarrassed as can be.

“I tried to make breakfast and instead I set the kitchen on fire,” I sigh, plopping down at the kitchen table and slumping low in my chair.

Clyde chuckles and grabs the orange juice out of the fridge. He gingerly steps over the puddle and takes two glasses from the cupboard before joining me at the table. “Well,” he says, pouring me a glass and sliding it to me, “we can’t all be Gordon Ramsay.”

“I just wanted to do something nice for you,” I say, annoyed at how pathetic I sound. I mean, I’m almost 30 years old for chrissake, and I’m setting breakfast on fire and then whining about it. Not a great look. “To thank you for being so generous.”

“Well it’s a nice gesture,” says Clyde, “but next time maybe just play to your strengths?”

“I have no strengths. Where’s a mop?”

“There’s a Swiffer in the hall closet.”

I procure the Swiffer and get to cleaning up the kitchen floor. Clyde is unbothered, putting bread in the toaster and pulling out the peanut butter and jam. 

“I talked to the owner of the bar yesterday,” he says as I clean. “Since I left him alone on Saturday night, he finally agreed we could use a barback-slash-dishwasher. You interested in making 10 bucks an hour, 20 hours a week? Lou pays in cash, so you’re not gonna lose anything to taxes.”

“Seriously? You think he’d take on my butterfingers?”

Clyde shrugs. “He doesn’t need to know. You’ll mostly work with me.”

“I...thank you, Clyde. Jesus, you just keep delivering.”

Clyde smiles and ducks his head. His thick waves fall in front of his eyes. So soft.

“So, uh, when do I start?”

The toaster pops.

“Tonight.”

  
  


I’ve never worked in a bar before. The closest is when I worked at McDonald’s for a week in high school. I got fired for eating all the fries, but I was glad to get out of there. Depressing grease trap of a place.

The dress code is simple: a dark top and nice jeans or khakis. I wear my newly-Tide-fresh long-sleeved black waffle shirt (sleeves pushed up above the elbow, chic, I hope) and medium wash jeans. I spend some time combing by hair. I look halfway decent. When I come out into the living room, ready to go, Clyde looks surprised.

“You look real nice,” he says, soft.

I’m sure I turn that awful tomato red. Curse my Irish skin. “Thanks.”

Clyde clears his throat. “Um, uh. Are you ready to go?”

I nod and follow him to the truck. As we ride towards the bar, he gives me an overview of my responsibilities. Mostly, it’s clearing empty glasses, washing them, and bringing them back out to the bar. Sometimes filling napkin holders or cutting limes. Cleaning up spills. “That’s about it.”

“I think I can handle that.”

“You’ll probably be pretty bored, but it’s easy money. Not much else to do around here.”

I hope that doesn’t translate into idle time spent staring at Clyde and debating making moves. But if it does, at least I’ll be getting paid.

 

Happy Hour starts at 5 and the blue-collar day shifters start pouring in. All the glasses are already clean so I just circle the bar, wiping down unattended surfaces. Clyde starts preparing drinks as people walk in--he knows these people, knows their drinks, and has it ready and waiting for them when they reach the bar. An air of camaraderie begins filling the bar, and it almost reminds me of a pub at home. Though, it’s been a long time since I’ve been there. It all seems fuzzy and like a million years ago. Maybe it reminds me of what an Irish pub is like in the movies.

“Carrot top!” Someone calls, and instinctively I look up, snarling. Two girls are at a high top, waving me over. I have nothing better to do, so I go.

“You must be new here!” They shout as if there’s loud music playing, but really it’s just quiet GnR coming through the speakers. They’re cute in an Appalachian sort of way. One has a pretty face and a long brown braid, wearing a sheer white tee-shirt, Daisy Dukes and cowboy boots. The other is blond with too much clumpy mascara, and a Walmart sundress. I decide I like the brunette best but I’m suspicious of them both--they’re acting a little Six-Drink-Sexy for 5 pm on a Monday.

“I am, yeah. First day. First hour, actually.”

“I’m Ashley,” says the blonde, “and this is Jenna.”

“Stensland.”

“Where’s that accent from, Stensland?” Jenna asks,  _ quite _ flirty, and I think I may be able to play up my exotic foreign origin. These country girls could be easily impressed by my innate European debonair! Maybe this is my place to shine.

“Ireland. Dublin, specifically. It was lovely, so much  _ culture _ and  _ history _ . Plus, summer holidays to France every year! We moved to the States when I was in high school and gosh do I miss that sophisticated way of European life!”

And they’re hooked! Just like that! If I know it’d be that easy in rural regions I’d’ve moved here years ago! They’re asking me all about Dublin and Paris and the Tube in London, and they’re hanging on every word I give them. Wow! This is what being devastatingly handsome must be like!

We’ve been chatting for about ten minutes when I feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s Clyde. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says, mostly to the girls. “Stens can you start washing a batch? I’m running low on glasses.”

“Oh, sure thing!” I say, eager to help this man who’s been so helpful. I do, however, regret leaving these ladies when I was getting so far. Hopefully they are regulars and this isn’t the end of the leeway I’ve made. “Ladies, it’s been lovely chatting with you. To be continued.” And the weird confidence-rush makes me wink at them. Wink! And I’m completely sober!

They make cute little pouty faces and wave goodbye and I head to the back, ready to start some honest-to-goodness work.

 

 

About 40 minutes later I’ve finished the batch. There weren’t that many glasses, but I got into a fight with the sink hose that derailed the cleaning process. The glasses sitting upside down on the drying rack, I carry them out to the bar to put them in easy reach of Clyde.

That’s when I see that Clyde wasn’t even close to out. In fact, he’s got almost 80 glasses waiting under the bar for him.

Clyde notices me notice but says nothing. Maybe in terms of bartending, 80 is running low? Jesus, how many is he meant to have behind the bar? 500?

He must also notice me scanning the bar because he says, “they left.”

“Oh.”

“Here, they left this for ya,” Clyde pulls a five dollar bill from his shirt pocket and sticks it in my hand. His usual warmth is absent. Is it because of the tip? 

“You keep it, you’re the one actually doing work here,” I say, trying to hand it back to him.

He shakes his head, thick dark waves moving slightly. Gosh they look soft. “They specifically said it was for ‘the hot new Irish guy.’” There’s something odd in his voice, though I can’t put my finger on what.

I shrug and pocket it. Clyde is called down to the other end of the bar to refill a whiskey and I’m left wondering what on this green Earth I’ve done to piss him off.

Maybe working together was not such a hot idea.


	8. Cold

Since it’s a Monday in a tiny town, we close painfully early at 9:30. The rest of the shift has been tense and cold and I just wish I knew why. I don’t yet know Clyde well enough to know if it’s best to coax the truth out of him, or wait till the morning and hope it goes away. I do, however, know myself fairly well, and I know if I don’t figure out the source of this Mega Chill I’ll be anxious with a stomach ache until I do.

So, we’re in the truck heading home. It’s silent. He doesn’t even turn the radio on. God, did I royally fuck up?

“Did I do something to piss you off?” I finally blurt out.

Clyde glances at me but then returns to keeping his eyes fixed hard on the road. “No.”

I’m not taking that lie as an answer. “I must’ve, because you’ve been really cold and weird all night. What did I do? Am I that bad of a dishwasher?”

“No,” he sighs. “Your dishes were very clean.”

“So what’s the issue?”

“It’s...” his knuckles turn white as he clutches the steering wheel. He shakes his head. “It’s nothing. I’m just having a weird night. Don’t worry about it.” His voice is kinder than before, but it also sounds dishonest. 

“Clyde, look. If I’m staying with you  _ and _ working with you, don’t think it’s best we be honest with each other? Otherwise every moment we’re together is going to be an awkward one. And we have a  _ lot _ of moments to spend together.” Looking at him, I try to gauge a reaction, but his face stays stony. “Or did I fuck up so bad you’re gonna tell me to hit the road, Jack?”

Clyde almost chuckles. “No, it’s not that big a deal...you got a point, but I think if I tell you the truth it’ll be even awkwarder. Just forget about it. Just an off night. I’ll be fine in the morning, I promise.”

I let it drop. For now.

 

About 45 minutes later I’m in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to sleep but worried Clyde’s in the next room, seething and hating my guts. Fuck. I throw off my covers and go knock on his door.

“Stensland?” he calls gruffly.

“Can I come in?”

“Um, sure.”

I enter the room just as he’s pulling his tee shirt over his head. It leaves his hair ever-so-slightly unkempt but also really awfully cute.

“Listen,” I begin, “I know you said I should just drop it but it’s driving me crazy. I’m sat up in the other room with my stomach turning thinking you hate me. And the only way for me to quiet that is to know the truth. Please? Will you please be honest with me?”

“Fuck,” Clyde says, running his hand through his hair. “Come sit down,” he sighs, gesturing to the edge of the bed. I do as he asks and turn toward him expectantly. “I got weird because I felt...shit. I felt jealous and stupid and so I got sad and angry and cold.”

“Jealous? Of what?”

Clyde takes a deep breath. “I was jealous of you flirting with those girls. And I felt stupid because I guess I thought...well, I thought you had been flirting with me, when we first met, and a little since then. I sorta thought we were on our way towards...something. I dunno. And then the way you were talking to them was so different from how you talk to me, so then I felt stupid, because obviously I was wrong all along and you aren’t interested in me at all. So. I got upset.”

I’m speechless. All I can think to do is reach out, hold his hand, and say, “Oh, Clyde.”

“Toldja it would only make things awkwarder. Honesty ain’t always the best policy in my book.”

“You...you like me?”

Clyde snorts. “Ain’t it obvious?”

“No, I didn’t...I thought you were just really nice. I didn’t think you were _ interested _ in me.”

“Well, I am. I’m sorry. I stupidly thought it was mutual but since it ain’t...I’ll try real hard not to be interes--”

Before I can stop myself I’m practically in his lap, pressing my lips to his. His breath is hot and tastes like coffee. The scratchy-softness of his beard against the edges of my lips is a new and weird sensation, but not a bad one. His mouth slips open and he fucking  _ nibbles _ on my lower lip and now he’s got his arms around my back, pressing me closer, and I can hardly breathe and it’s  _ awesome. _

“Stens?” he mumbles after several blissful moments, pulling back and gazing into my eyes. This close, I can see the amber and gold flecks in the brown. Gosh, he’s pretty.

“Mm?” I nuzzle the stubble on his neck, inhaling the shaving cream and aftershave scent. It’s soothing. He’s lovely.

“Do you just feel bad or do you actually like me?”

“Do you just feel gay or do you actually like _ me _ ?” I retort.

“I like you! I really,  _ really _ like you.”

“Me too.” I say, pressing a peck to his rough cheek. “I feel like I spend all our time together trying not to stare at you.”

Clyde chuckles, his fucking enormous chest rumbling against me. “I’ve been doing the same thing.”

“I didn’t want to do anything because I was afraid you’d go with it just because you’re lonely and I’m a guy and I’m here and convenient.”

“No! No, Stens, gosh. I think you’re so handsome and hilarious and sweet and just...darlin’.” He melts into me again, taking my mouth up in his, exploring with his tongue. Fuck. I throw my arms around his neck, eager to get as close as possible. Down below, we’re getting awfully close as well. I can feel his erection against my thigh and HOLY FUCK it’s like a goddamn anaconda and I’m terrified, aroused, excited, and uncomfortable all at once.

Cold Clyde is certainly gone now.


	9. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is NSFW

I’m past out-of-breath and dizzy in the head when I finally pull away, gasping. I look down at his so-swollen-red lips and I’m aware of the light throbbing on my own, where Clyde was nibbling.  _ God _ . What an unexpected situation.

“Fuck, I’m so glad this happened,” Clyde sighs below me. His dark waves are splashed out on the pillow and his eyes are glassy. I press a small peck to his lips.

“Me too.”

And I am, he’s so hot and this is so hot and I like him so much, but the discomfort must be clear on my face because he says, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I just...” I roll off of him. My dick is still painfully hard. Fuck. “I really really like you but I’m sort of nervous-slash-terrified of having sex with you because I’ve never done it with a man--”

“I haven’t done it with anyone.”

“I know. And that’s part of why I think we should take it slow because when I’ve had sex too soon with people shit always goes to shit a lot faster than if we get to know each other a little better, and especially since we’re both in such precarious positions as virgin and homo-virgin I think--”

“You want to wait a while.” Clyde sits up, nodding in understanding but wincing a bit, trying to get comfortable, and I can see through his boxers that his dick is uncomfortably stiff, too. “I get it. I think you’ve got a good point.”

“Okay. I’m glad we’re on the same page.” I sigh, relieved. Well, not  _ totally _ relieved. “But fuck, now I’m so turned on because that was  _ really fucking hot _ , Clyde! So I really want to but I know we shouldn’t. Not yet.”

“I don’t have any condoms anyway,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Ok, well,” I turn to him and press a chaste kiss to his cheek. “I guess I’ll return to the guest room and try to take care of this, uh, situation.”

“Or, um,” Clyde begins shyly. His hair falls in front of his face and this time I do push it back, gently tucking it behind his ears. He smiles. “We could take care of the situation here. Together.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “Now there’s an idea.”

“It’ll be a little like sex, cuz we’re next to each other, and maybe we can kiss and stuff, too? God, I like kissin’ you, Stens. But, uh, we don’t have to touch each other’s...then we’re not rushin’ into anything, y’know?”

“Clyde Logan, you absolute genius,” I say as I pull my tee-shirt over my head.

“Can’t say anybody’s called me that before,” Clyde chuckles, taking his top off, too. All the while we move slowly, eyeing the other, eager to see but afraid to be seen. Telepathically, it seems, we count to three in tandem and remove our boxers at the same time.

“Wow,” we both say, drinking the other in.

I can’t find a sexy way to describe a refrigerator, but a better poet could, and that better poet would be describing Clyde Logan. He is thick, sturdy, tall but never imposing. Hard. His  _ abs _ ! But still there’s a softness to him. A little patch of dark hair above his solar plexus and between his legs, thick, dark curly hair and holy shit  _ of course  _ the first guy I’m into has a frighteningly massive cock.

“Why’re you covering yourself?” he asks, and I didn’t even realize I was doing it. Instinct, I guess.

“Well, um, before you look I just want you to know, that um, I have very wide-set curvaceous hips and they sort of make my penis like quite small by comparison but it isn’t! It’s average, maybe even a little above average! It’s just my stupid bitch hips--”

“Stens. It’s ok.”

He kneels onto the bed and comes toward me, hand out hesitantly, and I realize this is the first time I’ve seen him without his prosthetic on. But he seems whole. Gently, his fingers come to rest on my hip.

“So soft,” he barely whispers, looking up into my eyes. Fuck, that’s suggestive positioning. I move my hands away from my jewels and stroke his hair. He stretches up to kiss me.

And soon we’re lying beside each other, kissing desperately as we jerk off frantically, occasionally our hands make the venture across to the other, feeling the other experimentally, warm, heavy, full, and we kiss and kiss and stroke and he comes first, and his face is exquisite and the soft grunt he makes hits me deep in my stomach and I’m coming just after him and we’re spent.

Absolutely spent.

And without a word, Clyde curls around me, kissing me between my shoulder blades, and snores off into wonderland.

I’m not far behind.


	10. Morning, Sunshine

When I wake up, it takes me a moment to register that I’m not in the powder-blue guest room, and that I’m not alone. I startle for a moment, until I hear the soft-grunt-snores that I know couldn’t  _ actually _ have a southern accent but for some reason I feel like they do?

Anyhow. Clyde’s big darling nose is pressed into my back and my bladder is full so I move ever so slowly, not wanting to wake him, wanting to catch a glimpse of his peaceful sleeping face before he’s up for the day. And I manage! I slip out of bed and turn back to look at him, and  _ jesus _ is he lovely. Clyde’s face is a lot like mine in that generally our brows are knit in worry or anxiousness or confusion. But right now he’s totally relaxed, smiling a bit at the corners, his moles like little stars on his smooth skin. The little hairs of his mustache flutter as air escapes his nose. I resolve to pee quickly so I can hop back in bed and look at him more closely.

But when I return from the urination station, I find the bed empty and I hear music coming from the kitchen. I find my boxers and slip them on. I look for my shirt but can’t seem to find it, and oddly I don’t feel that apprehensive about walking out bare-chested. Clyde is so built, y’know, and logic would have me scared to death of my physical inferiority, but Clyde is also so... _ good. _ I don’t feel fearful of the regular stuff when it comes to him. He makes me comfortable, and I’m never comfortable.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he calls, flipping a pancake. When it’s settled he moves away from the stove and towards me, and so simply and naturally, as if we’ve been married for a million years, he puts a hand on my waist and kisses me, light and sweet, right on the lips. It’s so domestic. My stomach somersaults.

“Good morning to you, too.”

“Did you sleep alright? The bed is set to a 35 for me and I know for some people that’s much too soft. Do you know your sleep number?”

“No, I can’t say I do...I slept well. Better than I have in a long time, actually.”

“Maybe you’re a 35, too.”

“I think it was more the comedown from the splendid mutual orgasm combined with your space-heater body, actually.”

Clyde chuckles. “Fair enough.” He moves back to the stove and flips a pancake once again. Clearing his throat, he makes unsure eye contact with me. “I’m really just...I’m so glad last night happened.”

“Me too.”

“I’m sorry I had to be a sulky dick to prompt it, though. I shoulda just toldja how I’d been feeling.”

“I probably would never have said anything either, honestly, if you hadn’t first. Plus, I--” I freeze when he flips his hair off of his shoulder. “Oh, shit, did I do that?”

“Hmm? What?”

“Fuck, Clyde, I’m sorry. There’s a huge hickey on your neck.”

Clyde tries to look down out it, stretching his jaw and shoulders to try to glimpse a blindspot. When that doesn’t work, he turns down the heat on the stove and jogs to the bathroom.

“Damn, Stens.” He says as I walk in. But he’s not upset--he’s actually grinning. “It’s enormous.”

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know how that happened, I don’t think I’ve given a hickey since high school,  _ jesus--” _

“Well, it’s my first.” Clyde smiles at the big purple bruise in the mirror. “Finally.”

“What are you gonna say when people ask you about it? I mean, it’s certainly not turtleneck weather.”

“I’ll say nothing. Let them get creative.” He shrugs. 

“You’re not afraid someone will guess the truth?”

“Mellie’ll know right away, but I ain’t worried about her. And everyone else? They wouldn’t fuck with me. I’m a nice guy but I don’t take shit. People round here know that.”

I don’t ask about Jimmy, his big brother who I know he looks up to, who he’s never told. I don’t ask if I’ll ever meet him, and if I do, will Jimmy know who Clyde and I are to each other?

Wait. Slow your roll, Stensland. You don’t even know who Clyde and you are to each other. Mutual masturbation and a sleepover do not a relationship make. Pump the brakes.

“Thanks for the gift, babe,” Clyde says with a smirk and a kiss on my cheek, before he returns to tending the pancakes.

And now I’m all in my head, which means it’s time for the bong and some  _ Dawson’s Creek. _


	11. Face Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mini-crossover!

While Clyde is getting ready for work and I’m smoking/relaxing-all-cool, my phone rings. A Facetime call from my cousin. Weird...

“Hello?” I answer. In the little corner box I can see the unflattering angle of my under-chin. Nice.

“Stensland! Didn’t you say you were coming out east?” A crisp American accent with just a hint of a lisp chirps from behind long red hair. Breck.

“Huh?”

Then there’s a very different tone from further away. “Christ, is he stoned?” Aaand that would be Armitage.

Breck giggles. “Of course he is.”

“Hi, guys,” I manage, setting down the bong. I sit upright a little, willing myself to sober up just a smidge so I’ll remember the conversation lucidly.

“We’re calling,” Techie continues, “because you told us a few weeks that you were headed to New York and we expected to hear from you by now!”

“We wanted to make sure you weren’t kidnapped and dismembered!” Armie calls. 

“Oh! Uh,” I totally forgot that I’d mentioned my trip to them via Facebook. They live in New York and I back-up-planned to beg to crash on Armitage’s couch should I not find housing immediately. When I started to run out of cash I guess I forgot about it. “I went broke a bit early. Landed in West Virginia.”

“Ew,” says Armitage.

“We can loan you some to get you out here!” Breck says eagerly. “We haven’t seen you in forever, it’d be worth it!”

“2.5% interest rate,” Armitage says.

It truly warms my heart that my cousins like me enough to wire me some funds. I always figured they thought of me as their weird older cousin with bad shoes. Well, at least I thought Armitage did. Breck always seemed to look up to me a bit. He’s even weirder than me.

“Oh, guys, that’s so sweet. I’d sure love to come out and visit sometime.”

“Visit?” Breck asks, frowning slightly. “Aren’t you moving here? I thought you were over Seattle.”

“I am, yeah. It’s just that this West Virginia pit stop....” the still-running sound of the shower gives me the confidence to say it, “well, I think I might be staying here a while.”

“Why on Earth?” Armitage is on the screen now, perched on the armrest and sitting behind his younger brother. Their nearly-identical faces read “extremely puzzled.”

“I sort of met someone.”

Armitage rolls his eyes. “So we’ll see you in a week then?”

“Rude!” I announce. “That was uncalled for.”

“Look, I’m just saying you have a... _ propensity  _ for finding ‘special someones’ that don’t last too long.”

Breck shakes his head. “Don’t mind him, Stens. Armie just thinks that since he’s married he knows everything about relationships. So cocky, ever since the ‘I do’s.”

“So cocky ever since always...” I mumble. “Where are your respective beefcakes, anyhow?”

“Matt’s in Jersey visiting his mom this weekend, and Ben’s setting up his new exhibition.” Armitage states.

“Tell us about your ‘someone,’ Stensland!” Breck says excitedly. He’s almost 23 and engaged now, but his face is the same as when he was little and opening presents under the Christmas tree.

I hear the long squeak of the water turning off. Shit. It’s too early for Clyde to hear me get all gushy. “Can I call you back later? He’s actually just getting out of the shower--”

“He!?” exclaims Armitage.

“Toldja he was one of us!” Breck tells Armitage. “You owe me 50 bucks.”

“Excuse me?” I guffaw.

“I’ve been saying to Armie for years, ‘I think Stensland’s queer, too, but he’ll be a late bloomer, and Armie was all, ‘no, Stensland’s totally hetero,’ and I said  _ no one _ is  _ totally _ hetero, but then--”

“We made a bet, long story short,” says Armitage. “Thanks a fuckton, Stens.”

“I’m sorry my complicated and deeply personal journey of sexual identity discovery has inconvenienced you, Armitage.”

“Apology accepted.”

“Babe?” Clyde calls, approaching. “Have you seen the floss?”

“Listen, guys, I hafta go now.”

“I wanna see him!” Breck exclaims just before I end the call. Clyde is standing behind me on the couch. I wonder if Breck got that glimpse he wanted.

“Who was that?” Clyde asks casually.

“My cousins from New York.”

“You have New York cousins?”

“Mmhmm. Well, technically they’re my cousins from Connecticut, but they live in New York now.”

Now that I’ve put down my phone I actually turn to look at Clyde, and  _ goddamn _ . Towel hanging low round his waist, big as hell pecs glistening with water droplets, hair slicked back, wet.  _ “Damn _ .” 

Oops. That wasn’t meant to be said out loud. 

Clyde grins wrly. He sits down beside me on the couch and starts twirling a lock of my hair around his long pointer finger. He smells sooo good.

“Tell me about your cousins from New York.”

“Well, they’re full-on American, born here and all that. Their mother is my mother’s sister. Their mom came to the U.S. after secondary school, mine didn’t come till I was nearly 15. We moved to Chicago on account of my dad got a job there. Have I told you that before? Anyhow. Breck and Armitage grew up in Connecticut but they flew back to Dublin for Christmas at my grandparents’ house every year, so I saw them more than any of my other extended family. Then when I came to the States I’d go see them in the summertime. They’re a bit younger than me, Breck is seven years younger and Armitage is almost three. We all looked quite alike though, which people thought was funny. Like the male half of the Brady Bunch, only ginger.”

Clyde chuckles at that. Then he says, “I didn’t know you had family here. I don’t really know anything about your family, actually.”

I shrug. “There’s not a whole lot to say. My dad died when I was 20, then my mom when I was 22. They had me kinda old, and they were smokers. I don’t have any brothers and sisters. Grandparents died when I was in high school. I guess Breck and Armie are kind of the only family I have left. Except their mom, my aunt, but she’s fucking nuts.”

“Do your cousins think that, too?”

“Oh yeah. But she’s at least nice-nuts. Most of the time. Their dad is a mean old bastard. He’s close to kicking the bucket, I hear. I think my cousins’ll be relieved.”

“Wow.”

Again, I shrug. “I don’t know about your folks, either. Just your siblings.”

“Ma passed when I was pretty young still. I was almost 10. After that Dad was kinda in-n-out ‘n all over the place. By the time I turned 16 he’d up and disappeared. But that was alright, in a way. Jimmy was always better at bein’ in charge and protectin’ us and providin’ and I’ll that. He’s such a good dad to Sadie cuz he practiced on me and Mellie first.”

“I’d like to meet him,” I say. It sounds meeker than intended.

“I’d like you to meet him, too.” Clyde says, snuggling against my side.

“You would?”

“Course I would.”

“Would I meet him as...I mean, would you tell I’m your...” I pause. It’s  _ wayyy _ to early to say ‘boyfriend.’ We barely-fucked, once. 

“I’d tell him you’re my boyfriend,” Clyde says with a warm smile. “If you’d be comfortable with it, that is.”

“I...I would.”

“Okay,” says Clyde. “I’ll ask him if he ‘n Sylvie wanna come up for dinner some night this week.”

Holy shit. That’s real soon. Not too soon, per se, but close! And coming from me, that’s saying something!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who wants to make some art of this fic?? :)


	12. Making the Call

Clyde talked a casual talk about inviting Jimmy up, but he’s nervous. He keeps picking up his phone, looking at it, placing it back on the coffee table, and starting the cycle over again.

“Would you like to smoke? Calm your nerves?” I offer.

“No, I oughta have a straight head about this.” Clyde pauses, then snorts. “Straight. Ha. Get it?”

I give him a “my, you’re clever!” smile and rub his shoulder reassuringly. “I’ll leave you alone if you prefer.”

“No! Stay. Please.” Clyde flushes. “Here,” he holds out his phone to me. “Will you hit the call button for me? I can’t seem to do it.”

“You sure?”

He nods and I hit the little green circle on the screen before handing it back to him.

“It’s ringing,” he mouths. Then, “Jimmy! Hi. How’re ya?...Oh good. Tell her I said hello.... Well I was calling because I, um....I got a new grill and you and Sylvie oughta come up and I’ll make ya’ll somethin’ interestin.’....well not just three of us.... Mellie, yeah, sure. And she’ll probably bring Joe...Ha, well, actually, I won’t be a fifth wheel on account a....yes, well, not exactly, what I mean to tell you is I have, um....a boyfriend.”

Silence. Well, not exactly silence, I can hear the mufflings of Jimmy on the other end of the line, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. Clyde is stone faced, until he isn’t. His eyes redden and go moist and a smile crawls onto his lips.

Thank fucking god.

“Uh, yeah, I’m glad I told you, too....I was sorta worried....no, you never gave me a reason to, I just, I dunno, I thought maybe you’d....yeah. Thank you, Jimmy. I...it feels really good to finally tell you...Stensland...last name, he’s a one name kind of guy.” Clyde smiles at me. “I think you’ll like him. He’s really funny....yes, he’s kind to me...he’s right here, Jimmy, dang. You’ll meet him on Thursday!...Jesus. Okay. Talk to you then. You too.”

Clyde shakes his head, chuckles, and puts down his phone.

“So,” I say, “that went well?”

Clyde picks me up like I weigh nothing and pulls me into his lap. “It went better than I ever thought.” He starts peppering my face with kisses. “Thank you.”

“All I did was press a button.”

“No,” Clyde says, hair falling in his face. I smoothe it back. God, it’s soft. “I’ve been wanting to tell Jimmy I’m gay for 15 years. And if you hadn’t’ve come in to my life, who knows if I ever would have?”

“I love you.”

Oh shit.

Fuck.

I didn’t mean to say that out loud  _ already _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been so long! Life has been so very busy. The dinner will come soon, as will Clyde's response to Stensland's admission!


	13. Rush

“I meant it like a knee-slapping ‘gosh I love ya you’re so funny!’ kinda way! Not...not the other way.”

Clyde tilts his head at me. “But I didn’t say anything funny.”

“Yeah but just your general aura, you know, is...humorous.”

“Everyone says I’m too serious. You included.”

“I-”

“Stens. Just stop.” He puts his heavy hand on my knee. “Just...let yourself have said what you said.”

I bury my hands in my face in shame. “But it’s too soon! It’s way too soon and now I’ve ruined it and-”

“Stop thinking you’ve ruined things! Things aren’t that easily ruined!”

“But with other people...”

Gently, he pulls my hands from my face and holds them. “I’m not other people. Have a little faith in me. I’m not runnin’ from ya.”

There’s a glint in his eye, maybe some moisture. Why is he crying? Honey amber eyes, wet and full. Amber. Amber McGinnis. She wasn’t having it. Then Shelly O’Connell who threw my Valentine in the trash. Deidre Hanson asked Mrs. Michaels to move her desk. I admit I came on too strong that time. Then in college, I was careful with Jen, I waited six weeks to say I love you. But that was “moving way too fast, I’m sorry, Stensland, we can’t....” Similar thing with Riley. And Liz. And Caroline. Then there was Molly, sweet Molly! She even wanted to live with me! Curse that Fulbright scholarship whisking her away to Kenya! My text-to-response ratio with Christine was eight to one, which she didn’t care for. Jiyong said she didn’t have time for someone as  _ intense _ as me. And Morgan! Well...

But Clyde. Clyde’s different. Clyde’s wrapping his arms around me and pulling me into his lap. Clyde’s pressing a kiss to the top of my head even though my hair is greasy and smells of spoiled coconut. Clyde’s not running. Clyde’s here.

“I don’t know much about it, y’know,” he speaks low, the vibrations of his voice rumbling against my back. “Love. I can’t say for sure yet if it’s what I’m feeling, it isn’t like I expected love to be. But it’s something. I feel something mighty strong about you, Stensland. I very well could love you, too. And if I don’t yet, it won’t be long till I do.”

“I get sucked up in things so fast, the feelings hit so hard right away, it scares people, it scares me, too, but I’m no good at hiding ‘em.”

“I like that about you. Better to feel too much to be numb, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“I do.” Clyde shifts with a grunt, moving us so we’re face to face on the couch, wrapped up in each other. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been literally 1000 years! More soon, I promise!


	14. Grillin'

The barbecue is upon us and I'm freaking out. Clyde says not to worry, but how can I not? I try to keep myself busy by cutting watermelon, being extra precise with the sizing of the slices, but all I can think of is all the things his family will find will wrong with me. And then they'll tell Clyde, and Clyde'll see that they're right, and I'll be all alone again. Fuck.

When the doorbell rings I make myself disappear. I decide to change into my bird blouse - it always helps me feel like a condor. I can hear a medley of twangy voices out in the living room and shit, I shouldn't have hid because now I have to make an entrance and I have to be very deliberate about the kind of entrance I make. Dammit.

"Stens? The gang's all here!" Clyde calls. Fuck. I shuffle out to meet them.

Mellie's there, perched on the armrest of the couch smacking her gum. She smiles and I think it's meant to look friendly but I feel intimidated. Sitting on the couch is a woman with short dark hair, and next to her is a Clyde-sized man wearing a Lowe's uniform. 

"Stensland, you've met Mellie. And this is my brother Jimmy, and his girlfriend, Sylvia. Guys, this is Stensland. My, uh, my boyfriend."

"Nice to meetcha," says Jimmy, slapping his hand into mine for a terribly masculine shake. I do my best to match his grip and mutter a "you too." The ladies are easier, waving in lieu of shaking, and I'm grateful. My palms are drenched in sweat and the less people that know that, the better.

Clyde sighs contentedly after the greetings have been exchanged. "Well I've got burgers ready to grill, and veggie patties for you, Sylvia. Should we head out to the back?"

 

* * * * * * *

"So Mellie, where's Joe tonight?" Clyde asks from his spot next to the grill. My stomach does a little rollercoaster flip at watching him there, spatula in hand, adorably grill-mastering. I hate to admit it but the domesticity of it makes me imagine us in the future, barbecuing while our kids run around the yard, calling, 'dad, I'm hungryyyy, are they done yet??' Jesus. Slow the heck down, Stensland. 

Mellie glances at Jimmy, who clears his throat. "I thought maybe he should sit this one out," said Jimmy. "Just, y'know how he is."

Mellie rolls her eyes. "He's not how you think he is." Jimmy and Sylvia look skeptical. "Really! He's totally cool. But I agreed that, homophobic or not, he's a little, um, intense, and I didn't want him scaring Stensland off the first time he meets the family."

Clyde looks down and nods. I can't tell what he's thinking but it doesn't seem great. 

"So, Stensland," Sylvia begins, mercifully changing the subject. "What do you do?"

"Well, right now I'm working at the bar with Clyde. In my previous life I worked in fine antique dealing and furniture sales. I'd like to find something along those lines near here, eventually, so I can stop being a burden on Clyde."

"You're not a burden." Clyde says quietly. "I like takin' care of you."

I nod. "I know you do. But I like pulling my own weight now and then, too."

"Um, Jimmy," Mellie begins, "did you know Stensland's Irish? And Jimmy loves the Boston Celtics. You guys should talk about that! Clyde, a word?" Mellie pulls Clyde by the bicep away from us and I try to smile and be polite with Jimmy and Sylvia, because I really do want to get to know them, but all I can do is watch Clyde's face go from confused to distressed while Mellie speaks rapid-fire words and....

Oh, shite. I don't feel so good.

**Author's Note:**

> What a strange pairing this is! I love it.
> 
> Please leave comments, they keep me writing!


End file.
